ode to mere
this morning was a beautiful one with the first signs of spring transcribing themselves through incandecent beams of sun across concrete, a familiar warmth flooding my room. With myself not at work today I feel compelled to rope my dog Mere, a Jackrussel cross Pug into a long, whimsical walk in the hopes of gaining a satisfaction that can only be obtained through embracing this slight change in weather ; a change which I have been so desperate to feel. Mere, my fifteen (not entirely sure on this number)year old dog is however, reluctant at this promising excursion. She lays ever so comfortably amongst her bed and can be found here sleeping now for most of the day. After hoisting her feeble limbs and putting on her lead, she walks tentively and with precaution in every step. Her slow gate is a sure sign that the walk I had in mind would be one more shorter and much slower than anticipated for Mere is now too old, too tired and too averse for our morning saunter.
Our family got Mere when she was barely weeks old and I remember the day with innate clarity as if it was not most of my life ago. Crammed in a box were newborn puppies, all black except for one beige one which stood on her back legs, poised with large eyes. Now my mum, either naively or bravely, gave seven year old me the task of picking our dog, a task which I took very seriously.
“That one.” I said very quickly. I had a knack for picking out the odd one out, whether solely to be different or just because the way she stood upright made me giggle. Her name Mere later came from her standing on her back legs with her paws dangling desperately in the air, mimicking that of a Meerkat (I realise the spelling is different.)
The car ride home Mere, the literal size of my mum’s palm, lay quiet in a plastic container whilst I wailed the entire journey, sobbing.
“You love the dog more than me!” “You’re gonna love her and not me.” I cried, sure I had made a mistake of begging my mum for a pet for all these years, my bitter selfishness and dire need to always be number one clouded the experience and perhaps created a momentary disdain towards Mere but this was quickly forgiven.
Those who grew up with an animal know how special that bond is. Even at single digits years old I felt an over burdening responsibility to look after my dog and an immense feeling of delight whenever I was in her presence. When we first got her she was so small she couldn’t even get up the stairs without assistance, a creature so fragile and delicate and yet so full of life. I’d walk her at any and every opportunity, long country moorside walks where she would gallop into the fields, dirtying her paws, lapping up and bathing in sunlight. Hours spent exploring together up hills, down bogs, rain, shine she was and still is my best buddy.
What an honour and a privilege to grow up and grow old with a dog by your side. A loyal body of fur that is ecstastic every time you come home, overyjoyed just to be fed. Some days, sad as it is and perhaps I should keep this to myself, I was unsure of who to imbide in when I was struck with doubts and uncertainties. i look to Mere, who looks quizically back. I would often find myself laying beside her, whispering to her my inner most thoughts and whilst her face is mostly expressionless, I find undoubtable tranquility in our one sided conversations. I remember how I cuddled her all day the day my Dad died, I remember how she would lick my arm whenever I cut it, I remember how she would run at me when I got home from highschool, I remember how happy she was to galavant her favourite park, to have some icecream every now and again and these moments I wouldn’t trade for anything for it has been so fulfilling and special.
I look at her today and I suspect she is in pain, she stumbles often, is hard of hearing, sleeps more and more, sometimes will wet the bed and those back legs she is named after often cave in. Her appearance is slightly weary and old. “My god” I often think, please don’t die on me. My selfishness that disliked her in the beginning has now relocated into a selfishness that she lives forever, or at the very least until I die because I cannot imagine a world with her not in it. Whilst she may not be the same dog from when I was thirteen, one of vitality and immense energy, she is the same dog to me now at twenty one. It is understated the bond I have with Mere, my confidant, my bestfriend, a muse and motivation. Whilst watching her grey, deteriorate and put on a bit of weight, I have and never will regret the trade off of imminent pain that will be left once she dies for the joyous years she has given me. She cannot speak, though my mum is surely convinced otherwise, her presence is bar none, her soft fur that sticks to all my clothes, her wet snout, floppy ears, curly tail and white eyelashes, I’m happy to walk with her in any capacity, any speed, until she decides to move on and I feel incredibly blessed to of given her a lovely life. I do so hope that in that small dog brain of hers, as she currently sleeps at the bottom of my bed, she knows what a privilege it has been to care for her, one in which I would redo in every lifetime.
